


Ghosts and Lingering Tastes

by fragilelittleteacup



Series: Boys [2]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Canon compliant (kinda), Drug Use (referenced), Episode: s01e02, Fluff, Homophobia (mentioned), Kissing, M/M, Memories, Reunions, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 00:10:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8555086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: An eternity later.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (I would recommend reading Blueberries and Cream first.)

Sherlock had not thought of him for years.

He had been the teenage rebellion, the summer love affair, the college crush who had stolen Sherlock's heart and his virginity, kissed him like he meant the world. His father had found out, of course, and sent Sherlock back to England with threats of disowning him and rejecting him as a son and an heir. Sherlock could barely remember his face, but he could never forget his body; the way sweat curved over the lines of his muscles, his skin dark and slick, his abdomen tight and masculine. His smile, flashing in Sherlock’s mind. The way he kissed. He way he laughed. The way he was unflinching, honest, kind.

He was in pieces in Sherlock’s mind; a ghost, a shadow of better days. Simpler days. The strongest recollection Sherlock had of him was the taste of blueberries. After being sent home in disgrace, he’d refused to eat them. They made him too sad.

Now, standing in a flat inhabited by no one further than a dead body, surrounded by policemen, he stared with dumbfounded wordlessness at the man who had entered the room. Shock whiplashed through him, and he couldn’t move for the memories that were filling his mind, at just the sight of his face.

 _Him._ It was  _him._

“Meet Detective Bell; another of of my best guys,” Gregson was saying, but Sherlock wasn’t listening, “He’s running point on the case.”

“Hi.” Watson smiled, greeting him with a smile.

Marcus nodded at her, turned to Sherlock. And froze.

They stared at each other for what felt like the longest time. There was shock on Marcus’ face, but also disbelief; it had been so long ago. They were complete strangers, now, surely– yet the _memories,_ the sweet, sweet memories, were undeniable. Sherlock could see them, in this man’s eyes. The days they had spent together, an eternity ago.

“Sherlock.” Marcus said slowly, quietly, as if it were a statement of fact, a way of explaining what stood before him.

“Marcus.” Sherlock replied.

Sherlock saw Gregson shift uncomfortably, out of the corner of his eye; this was becoming strange, awkward, for everyone except the two of them. But Sherlock couldn’t have cared less. There was a sad, fond kind of affection softening Marcus’ expression, and somewhere deep, deep inside Sherlock, somewhere untouched by the violence and hideousness of drug abuse, he felt a warm pulse of teenage adoration.

"I see you two know each other?” Gregson hedged.

Sherlock wondered how he could possibly respond to that. Marcus also appeared lost for words.

“…Somethin’ like that.” Marcus answered.

His _voice._ His accent, unchanged after all these years. A deeper voice, a stronger voice, matured from those days of boyhood and youth. Sherlock found himself smiling, and he felt the shyness he’d been certain he’d grown out of. Utterly ridiculous. He was _blushing,_ for the love of god.

“I see you did become a policeman," Sherlock observed, for lack of anything else coherent to say.

“Yeah,” Marcus laughed quietly, as if somehow embarrassed, as if he were feeling the same shyness Sherlock was. He fidgeted, tapping on his notepad.

“Any good?”

Marcus smirked, and _oh,_ there it was. That expression. That sly amusement.

“I hope so,” he responded, slowly.

“Then,” Sherlock drew a breath, gestured around him, “I hope you know this is a robbery and a homicide, not a robbery-homicide. Two separate acts of criminality. One premeditated, one an act of opportunity.”

Marcus stared at him a few moments longer, grinning. Watson and Gregson were both watching them, likely very confused.

“Prove it.”

 

***

 

They sat on a park bench, not looking at each other.

“You’re quite good,” Sherlock said, staring straight ahead, “congratulations on doing what you wanted with your life.”

Marcus chuckled dryly. “It was only ‘cause of you that I persisted at it. Knew you would’ve wanted me to pursue my dream career. After you left…” his voice trailed off, melancholy, “…I felt like I had to do somethin’ to make up for how we ended.”

Sherlock swallowed.

They didn’t speak for a long while.

“…You’ve changed.” Marcus murmured. “Haven’t you?”

“It’s been twenty years.”

“Yeah, I know, I just…”

“…don’t recognise me.”

Sherlock saw Marcus turn his head, look directly at him, but he continued to stare straight ahead. Then, with a spontaneity he’d long thought lost to him, he said,

“I got addicted. I’m clean now, but…”

There was more to say. Of course there was. But he couldn’t bring himself to voice it, to lay it out bare. Not like this. Not so soon.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Sherlock turned to him, then, wanting to say something, anything, _everything-_

But he couldn’t. So he pulled Marcus forward by his collar, kissed him.

It was different. Not like the warm, summer kisses, the soft and patient adoration of college students. This was adulthood. Two separate lives stretched between them; years spent with other people, milestones accomplished separately, goals set in different directions, different paths through life. They were men, now. Not boys.

Sherlock pulled away from him. Marcus looked shocked, confused, and undecided.

“Sorry,” he said, hand falling down onto his lap. He looked away, fidgeted, not used to feeling like this, not used to this uncertainty. “You’re a veritable stranger.”

“Don’t say that.” Marcus said quietly. “And don’t apologise.”

Sherlock sighed. He hated that he sounded shaky.

“I think of you every time I eat blueberries.” He whispered, because it was the truth, and he’d never told anyone about his summer love affair, about the first boy he’d loved. “It’s funny. I could never quite remember your face, but I always thought of you whenever I ate blueberries. Isn’t that strange?”

Marcus laughed quietly. “Nah. It ain’t.”

 _God, you’re so cute._ Sherlock heard the voice of that boy, and he looked at this Detective Marcus Bell. Tried to see them as the same person– and, looking deep into those dark eyes, he thought he could see that boy, thought he could see the one who had pressed him into a bed, kissed him, made love to him with the window open, letting the summer air waft in. The curtains swaying. The house, so quiet, their heartbeats so loud.

Oh, he could remember it so clearly now.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me," Sherlock said, "About the man I’ve become.”

Marcus reached over, tentatively took his hand. Sherlock blinked, swallowed.

“So show me.”

Sherlock considered him. He thought of the tattoos beneath his suit, the scars that dotted his inner elbows, the woman he’d loved after Marcus had been lost to him. Then, with a sense of abandon he’d learned to deny himself, he leaned forward, and kissed him again.

“I’ll try,” he promised.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
